


Burning Moss and Messy Kitchens

by Niji_Hitomi_Iscariot, Silver_Eternity



Category: Homestuck, One Piece, OnePieceStuck
Genre: Caliginous Romance | Kismesis, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Tentabulges
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-24
Updated: 2014-12-24
Packaged: 2018-03-03 05:13:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,757
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2839322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Niji_Hitomi_Iscariot/pseuds/Niji_Hitomi_Iscariot, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Silver_Eternity/pseuds/Silver_Eternity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Strawhats' infamous spades couple and a vigorous pailing of shitty proportions.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Burning Moss and Messy Kitchens

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SybLaTortue](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SybLaTortue/gifts).



> Inspired by [these](http://syblatortue.tumblr.com/post/29228514788/i-was-reminded-that-zoro-tentacles-is-a-thing-and) [two](http://syblatortue.tumblr.com/post/48824776799/its-all-anons-fault-really) pictures from [Syb](http://syblatortue.tumblr.com) in her absolutely WONDERFUL OnePieceStuck AU. I seriously can't get enough of Sanjee. o3o
> 
> Enjoy, minna! Ja ne~

> Be Sanjee Mayuge.

Your name is Sanjee Mayuge, blueblood and head chef of the Strawhat Gambligants under Luffie Monkey, the charismatic shithead rustblood who was somehow able to convince you to join his shitty quest to conquer Alternia’s high seas. Yes, that is you, and at the moment, you are PISSED!

Green. Shitty as fuck green! All over your galley.

And it stinks too. The cloying scent clings to your nose and invades your well-honed palate to inform you that a certain three-horned mossball is in heat. Why should you care? You shouldn't! It’s not your problem if he’s in heat, and he shouldn't expect you to do anything about it. Not after the stunt he pulled the last time you were in need.

But your bulge says otherwise. So you grit your teeth around your cigarette and deliberately inhale a solid lungful of the infuriating marimo’s stench before storming out of the galley to find him.

>Sanjee: Be the three-horned horny mossball.

Your name is Ƶororo Ronnoa, the first mate of the pirate crew under Luffie Monkey, that crazyass rustblood who managed to save your stupid self from burning in the Alternain sun after you ran your mouth to a certain asshole Marine captain in the province you wandered into on your eternal search for sharkdad. You still haven’t found him, but right now that’s not much of a problem. Nope. Right now, you have a more pressing problem than anything do to with your crew, captain, or long-gone lusus. No. Your problem, right now, is you are in heat, and it’s getting progressively more painful as the hours pass.

But you’re sticking it out.

You made your statement to that worthless Blue that calls himself a chef, and whether he takes you up on it or not is on him. You’re pitch. Mostly. Usually. Except under certain circumstances. With specific reasons! EITHER WAY! It means you’re no coaxing mollycoddler like if he was a flush. None of that pathetic shit between you two. It wouldn’t be worth the pail if there wasn’t copious amount of blood involved—

Ahh shit. You shouldn’t have thought about that. Now your poor, swollen nook is leaking over the floor of the lookout spire where you’re on watch, _NOT_ hiding out, and certainly _not waiting for the shit cook!_ All three of your bulges twist in your lap as you grit your teeth to resist the urge to self-pail. Again.

The door slams open from what you're sure was a well-placed heel, and there he is, that nose you love to punch all wrinkled up because you know the second he inhaled, he got a good faceful of your scent. He takes a long drag on his smoke stick, plying for time you're sure, before he enters.

His voice is so grating in all the right ways, and you can hear his fucking quirk in that pretentious highblood accent, "God, M@rimo, did you forget how to get to the b@throom?"

You snarl, ears tilting backward, and bare your teeth, "i know how to g3t to th3 goddamn  _ablution chamb3r_  just fin3, shit cook! but if your puny highblood blu3 thinkpan can’t fathom it,  _th3r3’s no fucking point!_  i’ll just turn back into this fucking m3ss in  _minut3s!_ "

Shitting highblood terminology. You growl, more for the pleasure of seeing him react than any actual irritation on your part. At least, insofar as his stupid vocabulary goes. It takes all of your concentration not to smirk too much when he squirms.

"Well, you’re stinking up the whole shitty ship, moss for br@ins. Don’t you know how to keep yourself confined to one ROOM like @ civilized troll?" He slams the door behind him, loosening his tie already because he knows where this is going.

So do you; you can feel it in your nook. You just need to kick his ass first.

You surge to your feet—naked, of course, as the day you pupated. You were getting green genetic material soaked into your pants and haramaki so badly it was leaving smears on the walls, so you just tossed everything into a laundry basket. You’ll do it later, when you’re out of heat, and can stand to do more than fight your own biological urges.

"for your moth3rfucking information, i  _hav3_  k3pt mys3lf confin3d... h3r3!"

You refuse to admit it came upon you  _with a vegeance_  while sitting in  _his_  territory, in  _his_  galley, where the very wood is saturated with his scent, and that you know, you  _know_ , it came on you three days early because you decided to linger in the nutrition block and just breathe him in until your body kicked into ‘must pail now’ mode like a goddamn moron. But _he_ doesn't need to know that!

"Hoofbe@stshit! You INV@DED my g@lley, shitty-swordstroll!" He steps forward in time with you, his knuckles cracking as he clenches his fists. He's not STRONG like some bluebloods, but you like it that way. It means he's on par with you, and you can get one over on him as often as he _regretfully_ gets one over on you.  "You’re just asking for me to kick your ass, shitty sexgod!"

You sneer, all teeth and shining earrings chiming and flicking as your ears flip in anticipation. "as if you 3v3n  _can_  kick my wast3 chut3 housing, shitty cook! bring. it. on."

Your swords are in your hands and you’re shoving the third into your teeth before you know what you're doing exactly. And though you don’t know how they got there or remember picking them up, they’re unsheathed and ready to go, just like you want.

Steel meets the sole of his shoe before you even consciously register charging him, and he's up and spinning with both heels a split second after that. The clatter of weights against the floor assaults your ears as the glancing blow of your blade knocked away by his foot sent the vicious attack into a rack of barbells off to the side. He jumps, springing up to avoid having his hands crushed, and brings his leg around to push the sword in your teeth away so he can grab a hold of your middle horn. Another gush of lubricating fluid streams down your legs when he gives a yank on it as he flies behind you, aiming to haul you off-balance.

Your guard is still up though, he can't shake you with this move—he’s used it before—so your concentration stays on the fight. Your wrists reverse and the dull sides of your blades are set over your shoulders, the tips aiming for Sanjee’s thorax. You know you’ll probably miss, because the other thing you hate is what heat does to your body—it makes you pliable.  _So very pliable_  and you are bending backwards like you’re the shitty cook himself, spine flexing and bending like your bones are rubber.

As much as you refuse to admit it, there’s an advantage to being a highblood over your mid-spectrum color, he's taller and skinnier than you. So, just as you mentally predicted—you'll cull yourself later for it, when you aren't thinking with your nook—the blades serve only to help him trap you, forcing your own momentum to bury the tips deep into the bench behind you both. All it took was a of flexing his long spine in a certain curve.

This places his mouth next to your ear, and he uses the cherry of his cigarette to add heat to his otherwise cool breath. "Bending over for me @lre@dy, M@rimo? I @lw@ys knew you were @ desper@te fuck."

Every muscle you have stiffens in sheer outrage and your hands let go of your swords. One slams to the floor of the lookout block and the other snatches Sanjee’s wrist so he’s forced to let go of your horn. Digging in your nails and trying to ignore how the scent of first blood fires you up like a physical touch, you tighten the muscles in your back and flip. You’ve learned a few tricks from fighting the shitty curly-horn, and this is one of them.

"i don’t b3nd ov3r for no moth3rfuck3r and _d3finit3ly_ not a highblood fuckwad with his h3ad stuck up his own nook!"

He laughs outright as the scent of his blood mixes with your pheromones in the air, and he rolls with you to slam both of his knees into your thorax on the rebound. You take moments like this, in the security of your own thinkpan, to be glad you're his spade and not an enemy because otherwise that would have been his heels and you'd be dead. His moniker isn't 'Rainbowleg' for nothing.

"Better my he@d th@n yours, three-prong." He brings his elbow around to clock you across the face, enjoying thoroughly the pungent odor in the air when your nose shatters. Again. The fucker!

You hiss as the bone snaps and the skin splits open like a ripe fruit, blood streaming into your eyes, into your mouth, and you twist your head—you’d almost forgotten in your pitch-rage about the precious third sword in your teeth and you swing it at his  _head_. His elbow is in the way—how convenient.  "shitty curl! at l3ast  _my_  horns ar3n’t as r3pr3ss3d as my romantic urg3s!"

"There’s nothing repressed @bout w@nting to p@il your shitty nook until you c@n’t w@lk, M@rimo." He ducks under the sword swing and wraps his legs around your waist, one hand still trapped in your grip, the other going for the furthest horn.

He's aiming to pull Wado away from his neck! You can't have that, but the way the two of you are bent together the best grip you can get on that other arm is his bicep. You feel the sting of his smoke stick under your shoulder, crushed out but still a slight burn. It's enough of a pain response that you don't notice what he's doing with his now free mouth until he's biting down on your jawline! The only satisfaction you can get out of that is the sound of his growling moan when your blood spills across his tongue. 

But still, you respond—you can't help it. "NNNFUCK!"

You’re in heat and he knows how to manipulate your instincts almost as well as Choppah. And the bite so close to your throat, combined with the harsh grip on your horn, triggers the old submission reflex ingrained in all trolls; your jaw slackens, your muscles go limp, and your eyes flicker, trying to close. You won't drop Wado! You won't, you won't! You can't—

"Nnngghrrr… rrrr…" Your fingers twitch—goddamn it, he KNOWS the outer horns are more sensitive than the center!

He chuckles into your skin and digs his claws into the hornbed, biting his way to your ear now that you can't fight him so he can suck on your earrings. "H@teful." Bite. "Sp@wn of." Suck. "The Mother Grub’s." Lick. "Vestigi@l." Grrrriiiiind. "Third." Roll. "Sphincter." He forces his hips against yours, so you can feel his bulge is probably completely unsheathed beneath his trousers. "H@te you so much. <3<"

You twitch uselessly and your eyes flicker again as you growl. "goddamn…" Your shoulder jerks under his teeth. "shitty fucking…" You try to turn your head, but your powerful neck muscles refuse to respond. Fuck, he's got you good. "f3mal3-3ntranc3d…" Your bulges shamelessly writhe like a kraken’s tentacles and curl over his slim hips, trying to hold onto him when he shows you he's as worked up as you are. "hop3l3ss mirthfuck. hat3 you mor3 than anything. nghrrrrr. <3<"

You aren't at all prepared when he grabs you by both horns and slams you to the ground. He pulls back to shuck his pants, and you know it's because you were getting your genetic material all over his pretty suit. Though you're still pretty malleable thanks to his cheating ass, you gather enough wits to smirk at him, just the curl of your lip. He glares back, teeth bared and daring you to get up with that highblood edge. It always sends fury through your veins. Thinks he's so high and mighty on the hemospectrum, but you have to concede he won this round.

He's so careful with his buttons, makes you wanna reach up and rip them open, but he strips down to his boxers in record time. You were right, he's already unsheathed. Your smirk grows because you know you caused it with your needling him, and fighting him, and taunting him both out loud and with your body, and your scent is just too heavy in the air of the lookout block for either of you to be otherwise. You consider it just another notch in your favor that his neck tells you he's out of patience for dragging this out much longer.

Because of that you flat out smile—sharp and vicious—hate in your eyes. He gives you a warning look and what can you do but respond? You take sadistic pleasure in tilting your chin away from him to bare the long line of your throat because it fucks with his head. He knows damn well it's a taunt, not submission, and you just _love_ watching him get furiously pissed over it.

Your bulges reach for his though, dripping genetic fluids everywhere, and smearing all up his stomach and thighs as they curl in the legs and waistband of his boxers. Your entire body language screams ‘come get me bitch’, proving once again you don't have to be able to form coherent words to fuck with him.

He surprises you though, instead of forcing your chin back down so that he can meet you on even footing like usual, he takes your taunt as the submission it would be in anyone else. You gasp as he sinks your teeth into your skin, fangs on either side of your vocal cords, and grabs your sides by the grub scars! He's got a thumb claw in each one. And goddamn it, when the fuck did he pick up that trick!? His bulge alone forces the front of his boxers. The coiling appendage cool against your over-heated flesh.

Oh son of a mothergrub’s primary ducts!! That feels… _good!_ Disturbingly good!! Your breath hisses through your teeth and your eyes clamp shut as you start to shake, your bulges moving mindlessly to untangle from his boxers, one seeking his cold nook even as the other two shove his waistband further down. They wrap entirely around his bulge. Why it’s so satisfying with him only having one, you don’t get it, not when he needs all three of yours to be pleased, and especially not right now when you’re whining softly in the back of your throat and far, far too aroused to give a fuck. You twitch against his hands and your own come up to scrabble for a hold on his shoulders.

He growls subtly, pressing his advantage, and driving into your nook, even as his own welcomes you more gently. His bulge, like his eyebrows and horns, curls. Naturally it has coils in it that only barely ever straighten back out. When he's this worked up, it’s like a piston spring that forces your nook wider than should be comfortable given that you're not very elastic down there. Three bulges minimizes that sort of thing. He'll never admit it, but from the way he acts, you're pretty damn sure it gets him hotter than anything any female troll has ever done for him. And when he's working you over like this, his vocalizations only reinforce that idea.

Your bulges are forced to let him go as he invades you. Unlike other times when you’re on equal footing, it feels different. It feels… more powerful. On his part at least. it feels like he’s _owning_ you in a way. Your claws curl into the flesh of his shoulder-blades, raking long scratches even as your nook painfully stretches to accommodate him and your bulges slide into him with a slick sound, blue and green mixing between your thighs.

>Zororo: Be the dominating blueblood.

He is yours, you won him. The despicable, wannabe musclebeast, shithead! Every insult you think has you driving into him, lust burning in your veins, spurred on by the intoxicating scent of his heat. Your bulge writhes within him and your nook clenches down on his trio as you growl again, tasting his blood on your tongue.

He snarls, a sound he obviously can't help making, and your hips buck against him, relishing the way he is so fucking tight! One thing you're grateful for bout his shitty nook is that your bulge, when you're like this, is incapable—to your knowledge—of unfurling enough to reach his eggsac. Because that is the absolute last fucking thing you need to be dealing with at sea.

You feel the muscles of his throat bunch between your lips, and you know he wants to taste you, the same way you're tasting him. But he can't! You have him pinned! For once in your goddamned shitty-ass relationship, you are in absolute—OHGODFUCKDAMN!! His claws, down your back, up your calves, every-fucking-where he can fucking reach! Oh God! Fuck!! The scent of your blood on top of his and his heat and your lust and OHHHH!! _He's doing that THING with his bulges where they braid in your nook!_ He lashes against your eggsac and you gasp, inadvertently letting go as the combination of pleasure and pain blurs in your mind. You clutch onto him and pull him closer, striving to get deeper, to fill him as the urge builds in your shameglobes.

You growl, panting, with green on your lips and thighs, "Desper@te… shitty… fuck…"

His head whips down to cover your throat, as you knew it would now that you aren't holding him down, but you don't expect him to latch onto you shoulder. Fucking Hell! Any harder and he'd have broken the bone, shithead! You need that shoulder! Even he knows you're one of the strongest fighters on the damn shi-IT!! His bulge does the braidy-lashy thing again, and at the same time his tight-as-shit nook clenches down around your own, milking your curls and ridges.

His voice rumbles through your bones, and of course, despite having your shoulder in his teeth he is, as fucking always, entirely understandable, "fuckin… hop3l3ss… flush-cook!"

You hate that! You DESPISE his articulation. But worse, you hate the way it shoots straight through your bulge, giving you that tiny extra push to uncoil enough to plug him up. The second those ultra-tight muscles clench down on your bulge tip you’re gone. You hate that too. That he knows how to wring your climax from you with just a rumble of that shitty stupid sexy voice of his!

"Nyng@h!" Your claws shred his sides as you pulse, flooding his eggsac with your slurry.

"aaaaah!  _f3ckin' moth3rfuck3rs!_ "

He makes this tiny cry that's somewhere between horribly frustrated and utterly incensed, and you can damn near hear his thought process because fuck it all, you're thinking the same shitty thing. How did you do that? How, how how how, did you uncoil and get into his eggsac!? Has that ever happened before?? You can’t remember. Ohhh god! He's in heat! Shit shit shit shit shit!! That’s not good!! Please don’t let you have gotten him wriggled up! That would be so so fucking bad! So very bad, and yet it feels  _so very good_.

You're pulled out of your head when his bulges lash and give up everything in his shameglobes!

Oh god! He’s filling you! You’re going to murder him in his sleep! You shudder and your body drinks it in like the first time you ever tasted wine! You cry out, chirping, embarrassingly, in his ear, as you feel the slurry slosh within you. It’s almost enough for a second orgasm. You’ll never tell him, never share this secret, and never, EVER, whisper it out loud where ANYONE can hear it, but this full-to-bursting feeling! Oh god, you LIVE for it! Perigees of starvation on that shitty rock with your mentor after your lusus died?! Nothing fills you up completely, and you can never indulge the way your body DEMANDS of you. Never, except like this. Usually you use water, thickened a little with some corn starch, but this is SO MUCH BETTER!

You pant and shiver on top of him, for the first time, reluctant to pull away, even as your bulge retracts. "Sh-shitty M@rimo."

"f-f3ckin… cook."

His bulges feel reluctant to leave the cool relief of your body after burning for so long but they leave—slow and bringing with them another rush of fluid, squeezed up into you because you're not-exactly-unconsciously clenching down to hold it in. He's laying flat on his back—when did you get on the floor again?—sweaty, panting with you on top of him, and oh so very full. It’s a sort of painful relief that echoes between you when your bulge pops free of his swollen nook, and he groans at the lack of wonderful coolness. You watch him, fuzzy and smug.

Then, in a flush of embarrassment, he scowls up at you, "did… did you…?"

There it is!

"Did I wh@t, M@rimo? Use you like the filthiest, shittiest, bucket ever to exist? Yes I fucking did. It’s @ll your shitty musclebe@st @ss is good for." You growl because he’s talking, and no, shut the fuck up, now is time for enjoying feelings without shitheads speaking.

He growls back, but it’s weak because he's still humming with afterglow. His claws flex and scrape at your sides. You match him, digging your thumbs into his grubscars again. A flush of warmth pulses between you and he tenses. When he growls again, it's soft and low with the beginnings of more instead of the relaxation of a finish, and his mouth drops open to drag his tongue over the bite on your shoulder. You feel him arching up into you, and the press of slurry in your belly makes you groan. He answers your reaction by lapping further at the wound.

"ghrrrrrrrr!"

You hiss against his shoulder, pressing your fangs into his skin without breaking it. You’re reacting some to his scent though. Makes your mind fuzzy and your blood boil. "You’re ins@ti@ble, shitty swordsm@n! How m@ny times do I h@ve to stuff your nook before you’re s@tisfied, cretinous shitmuffin?"

"i don’t… know."

The words sound like they're pulled out with pliers, but it's just like him to not know how long he's been in heat, and repressing it, or how much more he'll need to satisfy it. Numbskull bastard! If he just came to you when he first started feeling it!!

You bite up his neck and bring a hand up to grip his horn so you can forcibly turn his head to the side, and you growl, grinding your nook against his bulge sheath. "If you m@ke dinner l@te, @sshole, it’s coming out of your hide in shitty strips @nd cubes."

"haaaaa… mayb3 th3n i’ll… i’ll ngh… hav3 to mak3 sur3… dinn3r do3sn’t happ3n… at all, hm?" He rolls against you, and though his nook smells all too ready his bulges are still sheathed flaccid—he can’t recover  _quite_  that fast, no matter how stupidly advanced he is.

However, with your grip on him you haul his head back to crack against the ground and sit up harshly in one swift movement, teeth bared inches from his face. You can feel the burn of your eyes turning red at the very _idea_ of that happening.  "DON’T! Joke @bout th@t. EVER! Mossblood!"

No matter how badly you hate him, there are certain lines a good spade just doesn’t cross. You don’t even give him a chance to answer, you haul back and slap him, making his teeth snap together.

"ha." He runs his tongue over his busted lip, spreading blood everywhere. "y’know damn good and w3ll th3r3 isn’t a moth3rfuck3r on this ship could mak3 dinn3r—or any oth3r m3al—just not happ3n as long as you’r3 on board, idiot." He reaches up in a movement that really makes what he just called you apply more to himself considering the rage you're building, and flicks you right in the curly eyebrow. "don’t b3 stupid. mak3 supp3r inst3ad. y’know. an 3arly dinn3r. or was all your shitty pr3aching about how ‘supp3r’ and ‘dinn3r’ ar3 two 3ntir3ly diff3r3nt typ3s of m3als a li3, dumbfuck?"

"Not the point, @nd you fucking know it, shithe@d." You’re expecting retaliation, your spine and thighs tense, waiting for him to actually catch on to how your mood has shifted into dangerous territory. Your eyebrow stings but not enough to be distracting. He still is though, which is probably the only reason you aren't in fullblown red-rage yet; his scent threatens to overwhelm your senses again.

He smirks. The expression that you know means he's thought of something. Something he thinks is either going to get him out of his fuck up or is at least going to distract you enough that you won't be edging that line of murderwhimsy quiet so hard. It makes the core of you happy that he knows you well enough to be able to do that, but the rest of you just wants to wipe that shitty-ass smile off his fucking face with the dull edge of your steel-soled shoes!

Then he opens his shitfilled mouth, "okay th3n moth3rfuckin curlybrow… why don’t you mak3 dinn3r now th3n? or at l3ast g3t start3d… just think of that m3ss i l3ft in your gall3y. you didn’t cl3an it b3for3 you cam3 to tak3 it out of my hid3, did you? that’s gotta g3t cl3an3d b3for3 you cook. and i’m in no condition." He gestures to his still-dripping nook and tacky thighs. "not to m3ntion… what if on3 of th3 girls walk3d into th3 gall3y and saw all that?"

Fuck him! You go pale. Utterly horrified. THE STAINS! You grip his hair and pull as you spring to your feet. "Oh no you don’t, shitty bulgete@se, you’re getting cle@ned up @nd then YOU’RE cle@ning up! You m@de the mess, YOU’RE cle@ning it! @nd if you don’t, I’ll m@ke you do it! WITH YOUR TONGUE!"

Putting on pants with one hand is difficult but somehow you manage it. You just ignore the fact that they’re his pants, and thus, you’re getting blue and green all over them. Okay, maybe you aren’t ignoring that fact, but you’re stilling pulling him around by the shitty green-tinged hair anyway.

He growls, pulling back, and like the idiot he is, digs his heels in such that your grip on his horn brings tears to his eyes. "forg3tting som3thing, ar3 w3, cook? i can’t fucking  _fit_  in your pants. and do you r3ally want m3 showing off my impr3ssiv3 bulg3s to your pr3cious ladi3s? th3y might find my 3xoticn3ss… app3aling."

His voice is hard and strained, but you don't really give too much of a shit, still coming down from the threat of rage. You yank on his horn again, bending him over sideways because of your position about to climb down the ladder from the crow's nest. "You’re the one sh@meless enough to self-p@il in the G@LLEY! The l@dies h@ve the decency to look @w@y from your filthy mut@tion!"

"som3how i doubt that—" You cut off his mutter is cut off by yet another yank and his hand flies up to your—he freezes at the last second. You watch the words ' _no not his hands never his hands_ ' play over his face with a pulse something not-quite-pitch in your heart as your eyes are locked. Then it's over and he cinches his fingers around your wrist instead, growling again, "fin3. fin3 fin3 fin3. i’ll go wash up. but if i drip all ov3r th3 d3ck and som3on3 complains just r3m3mb3r it’s your fault."

You grin, now that you're both back into familiar hate-territory, challenging him because he knows as well as you do that you’ll take it out on him. "Then I guess it’s in your best interest to NOT drip, huh?"

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, this was posted on my Tumblr a while ago, but I only just got around to cleaning it up tonight. ^_^0


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